TYLER

The third time Anastasia calls, I’m flying back to the inn. I’ve already decided to blow off work today, which is best for the company as a whole. Better not to make decisions when I’m feeling completely irrational, which is a great way to describe my emotional state today.

I’m a volcano ready to erupt, and I can’t tell if it’s the anger, the frustration, or the disappointment that’s on the verge of sending me spiraling into an explosion.

“What?” I growl into the phone. “What can you possibly need that’s so urgent?”

I truly don’t mean to sound like an asshole, but it comes off that way. Still, it’s hard for me to feel upset. Anastasia had her chance to make things right for Jess, and she passed it up. I’m having a hard time forgiving her, despite the fact that there’s no love lost between us.

“What’s gotten into you?” she snaps right back. “I’m just calling to say hello.”

“You never call to just say hi. Not even for Jess,” I say, going for the low blow. I’m in a sour mood, and it’s becoming harder and harder to shake. “What do you want?”

“Your check never came for this month.”

I grip the phone in my hand, severely debating tossing the damn device out the window. The only thing it’s done for me today is cause problems. “I always send the check on the first of the month.”

Her gum snaps. “Well, it didn’t come.”

I have to pull over to the side of the road. The fury building up inside of me is making my vision blurry, and it’s not safe for everyone else on the road.

“I can’t believe it,” I murmur. I’d gone for the throat when I’d made that crack about Anastasia not calling to talk to Jess, and it hadn’t so much as made her flinch. Hadn’t even bothered her for a second.

“I’m telling you, it never came,” Anastasia says. “I’m not a liar.”

“No, I suppose not,” I tell her. “Otherwise you’d have married me.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean, Tyler? I didn’t call to bother you, so why are you all pissy at me?”

“You didn’t call to bother me?!” I roar. “Well, maybe you should bother us a little bit more. Do you know how much Jess talks about you? I don’t know why the hell she does, but she thinks you’re some sort of a celebrity.”

More gum snapping.

“Are you listening to a word I’m saying?” I spit out. “She wants to hear from you. From her mother. She fucking hates shopping, but it’s the only thing she wants to do these days, and I can only imagine why.”

“She likes shopping. I take her all the time.”

“You take her shopping because you love it! She can’t stand it,” I snarl. “You’d know that if you stopped to ask your daughter, or talk to her, but no—you swing by when you feel like it, a few times a year, and whisk her to the mall for the afternoon. You are her mother, Anastasia.”

“Look, Tyler. I’ve never bothered you for custody. I don’t want custody. I didn’t even want to have a baby, and especially not with you.” Anastasia’s voice is strangely controlled—there’s no emotion, not even now, when we’re discussing our family. Or, at least, the broken pieces of it. “You said you’d pay me child support, and I’m just asking for what’s owed to me.”

“I’ll send another damn check.”

The thing is, she cashed the last one. I know she did, but she has a point. Despite my anger, despite all the frustration, she hasn’t bothered me for anything custody-wise, save for a monthly ‘child support’ check that’s bigger than most people’s payrolls. It funnels straight into her Chanel and Gucci budget.

“Fine,” she says, and then hangs up.

And that’s the end of that. The woman I thought I’d wanted to make my wife. The mother of my daughter. I collapse onto the steering wheel, feeling the urge to punch something, to pummel, to destroy. One night of weakness, and I’d ended up with the greatest and the worst thing in the world.

Oh, the irony.

I’d never take any of it back. I love Jessica far too much for that. She’s the one who pulled me out of the dark days of mourning my relationship with Margaret, and brought about a new reason to live, to become a decent man, father, and person. I’d never take that back.

But damn if the woman who called herself a mother didn’t piss me off. Not for my sake, but for Jessica’s. Would a phone call now and again hurt her? I see the light in Jess’s eyes deplete a little, year by year, as her mother’s visits grow fewer and farther between.

I don’t care about the money headed toward Anastasia. It was part of the deal we’d made when she got pregnant. I’d raise the baby and provide child support to her—and that’s why I worked my ass off every damn day. If I ever couldn’t provide the money to Anastasia, I had a crippling fear she’d try to take my daughter back from me. To get even, if nothing else—and I couldn’t let that happen.

Pulling back onto the road, I ease the car into traffic and struggle to get ahold of my frustration. Eventually, the anger fades to a sense of acceptance. After all, what more can I do? I need to work, to care for my daughter, and to continue finding our way in this screwed up world. There’s happiness to be found here, I know there is—if only it weren’t so hard to hold onto. It’s like sand slipping through my fingers—there one second, gone the next.

I can’t help but wonder if Maggie Marshall can be more. A rock I can hold onto, something strong and sturdy that won’t slip away when I blink.

I park at the inn, shutting my phone off to avoid further distractions, and hightail it inside. I pause at the desk, note the surprised looks on Luca and Emily’s faces, as if I’ve interrupted something, and wait.

“Can I help you?” Emily eventually stutters. “Mr. Daniels?”

“Where’s your washing machine?” I growl.

“It’s broken right now, sir,” Luca says. “It’s—”

“I know it’s fucking broken, that’s why I need to look at it,” I tell them. When they don’t respond, I raise my eyebrows. “I’m good with my hands.”

Emily looks a bit alarmed by this. “I’m not sure—”

“I can fix it; I’m nearly positive,” I tell her. “Let me take a look. If you call someone else, they’ll take you to the cleaners for an estimate.”

I can tell I’ve tapped into the logical side of Emily’s brain, and she battles with her frugalness. Eventually, the thriftiness wins out.

“I’ll show you,” she says, “but I’m coming with you.”

“Fine.”

The washer is tucked near the back of the building. We wind our way through the reception area, past the lounge with the popcorn machine, and then the kitchen. At the end of a small hallway that’s parallel the front lounge area, Emily stops in front of a closed door, fumbles with a key, and throws it open.

There are two laundry machines, one of them with an out of order sign.

“Nope,” Emily says, as I intuitively head toward it. “That one has been broken a few weeks. It needs to be fully replaced. We’ve been subsisting on this one ever since the other one pooped out.”

Her choice of words makes me laugh, and it feels nice. A good distraction from the cluster of emotions I’ve been dealing with this morning. I can see why Margaret likes her as a friend, keeps her close as family. Emily’s pleasant to be around, there’s no other way to put it.

“So, can you do it, Sherlock?”

“What’s with you ladies and Sherlock?” I ask, kneeling down to pop off a panel.

Emily laughs, the sound gleeful. “What’d you say to Maggie to get the Sherlock comment?”

“Asked if her washer was broken—while we were standing at the laundromat.”

“That’ll do it.” Emily’s eyes crinkle in a grin. She hoists herself onto the other busted machine and crosses her legs. “What brought you to the laundromat in the first place?”

“An accident.”

“Right, right.”

I tense, realizing that I’m not going to get very far if I don’t give Emily something to work with. “I needed to talk to Maggie.”

“About what?”

“Personal business.”

“Her personal business is my personal business.”

“And my personal business is my personal business.” I straighten, rest a hand on a hip as I study Emily. “Are the questions going to keep coming the entire time I’m working?”

“Yep,” she says cheerfully. “So, you better work fast.”

“If you’re going to sit around, why don’t you make yourself useful? I could use a toolbox.”

She rolls her eyes. “So demanding.” But she leaves, gathers a surprising number of helpful tools, and displays them on the floor. “There.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she chirps. “So, why are you being so helpful anyway? First the popcorn machine, then the washer...”

“I’m a giving sort of guy.”

“Yeah, sure. Do you give to everyone, or is it just Maggie?” She pauses, gives a dramatic flourish of her hands. “Or should I say Margaret.”

“That’s her name,” I grumble. “She had no problem when I called her that before.”

“Did you ever think she’s changed? In nearly the decade you’ve been away?”

I grunt as I putz with the washer, spotting the problem immediately—the drain needs de-clogging. I take a break and scan the tools, finding the one I need before returning to work.

“What I don’t understand is why you’re going through all this effort if you’re only going to be here a few days,” Emily continues. “I’d have thought you’d wanted to stay longer, especially since I gave you such a great deal on the room.”

“You gave me a shit deal.”

“Look at the suit you’re wearing,” Emily says, unapologetic. “You can afford it.”

This makes me grin. At least we’re on the same playing field. I actually appreciate that Emily calls the shots as she sees them. Maybe, if I’m smart about it, I can get just as much information out of her as she’s trying to get from me.

“I’ll stay for the full duration,” I amend. “I meant to tell you my plans changed again.”

“Don’t do me any favors,” Emily says. “If you want to take off, I can get that room filled in no time.”

“No,” I say, turning growly once more. “I’m keeping the room. Jessica likes it here.”

“Sure she does,” Emily says, not buying it for a minute. “What are your intentions with my best friend?”

“Excuse me?”

“You walk into this place like you own it—which you don’t, let me remind you—and start playing straight into Maggie’s heart. The woman might act like she’s tough, but if you hurt her...”

“I’m not trying to hurt anyone.”

“So, you’re not planning to bounce into town, drive Maggie to fall head over heels for you, and then hop right back to your fancy pants little condo in the city? Yeah.” Emily crosses her arms. “I did my research on you.”

“What else do you know about me?” I’m nearly done with the washing machine already; it was a simple clog, but I hesitate. I’m not sure I’m ready to finish this conversation.

“You love your daughter, and you seem like a good dad,” Emily admits. “You’re a ruthless businessman who owns a lot of shit and buys a lot of other shit.”

I nod. “That’s basically it.”

“I’m guessing, judging by how good you are with your hands,” she says, offering up an impressive eyeroll. “That you used to do construction or maintenance. Something handy.”

“I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty,” I say with a smirk. “You know how things go in Harp’s Haven; we fix our own shit. Lucky thing my dad taught me the ropes, otherwise I would never have gotten the gig as a handyman at my apartment complex when I first moved to New York.”

“Until you bought the building,” she says, understanding. “Then began your huge-ass career as a real estate guy. You own apartments, land, and...hotels.”

Her eyes narrow on me at the last word. I turn back to the washer, accidentally nailing my fist on the lip of the machine and cursing as it stings. “What about it?”

“Why are you back here, Tyler? That’s the one thing I couldn’t uncover. Seems to be pretty hush-hush over at the Daniels Corp.”

“Look at that.” I give the washer a firm pat with my hand, pop the front panel back into place, and press the start button. Water gurgles out of the tank, and the machine is as good as new. “Looks like we’re done here.”

“Fine.” Emily doesn’t press further, understanding this is as far as I’m willing to go. “But if you think you can swoop in here, mess with my friends, my family, or this town, you are so wrong, buster.”

The threat itself makes me grin. It’s hard to take her seriously when she’s calling me buster. I quickly realize that’s a mistake, however, when I glance at her face. She’s unamused.

“I’m serious,” she says, stepping forward and poking a finger into my chest. “If you screw this up, you will regret it, Mr. Daniels.”

I force myself to swallow and nod. “I understand.”

“Great,” she says, all bubbles and smiles once more. “Thanks again for fixing shit around here.”

With that, she bounces out of the room, leaving me alone with the washer and a bundle of new worries.

Emily has a point, as much as I hate to admit it. If I want to start something with Maggie, I have to be damn ready to finish it this time.

A creeping sense of unease slides over my shoulder, reminding me there are a few things I should come clean about to Margaret before we take things any further. Or, attempt to progress whatever happened in that laundromat.

“Hey, Fletcher,” I say after dialing my phone and landing one of my employees. “I’m feeling much better—screw the sick day. Can we talk?”